


in the disorder, you are the peace sign

by ladyfriday



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Student Council
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfriday/pseuds/ladyfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke can’t pinpoint the exact moment things between them go from stubborn disagreement to weathered partnership. </p><p>Or; Bellamy and Clarke as student council co-presidents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the disorder, you are the peace sign

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elle_stone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/gifts).



> Merry Christmas [kinetic-elaboration](http://www.kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/)! I hope this fic brings you joy~
> 
> (Title from Peace Sign by Lights ft. Coeur de Pirate.)

It isn’t that she thinks homecoming should be as big a deal as it is. It’s that it’s tradition, and in a school as old as theirs, where the teachers now were once students who walked these very halls, tradition is akin to law. There’s a pecking order when it comes to the Ark High student budget. Homecoming sits at the top—it doesn’t matter how much funding the other programs get, so long as homecoming is as elaborate and fanciful as it has always been. Clarke doesn’t understand it, but she accepts it. Some things aren’t meant for change.

Her co-president isn’t so understanding.

“We don’t need the parade,” Bellamy says, clicking his pen on the desk, “No one cares about the damn parade. It’s not even like this is college.”

They’ve been over this already, and Bellamy’s still trying to sneak some extra money to the musical.

“If you can squeeze money out of anything else, write it in. But there’s no way in hell they’ll approve any changes to the homecoming plan.”

“Remind me why we need their approval?” he grumbles, leaning back in his chair, “It’s creepy that all of these grown-ass people care so much about what a bunch of high schoolers do. If we don’t want the parade then that’s our decision.”

“I hear you,” Clarke sighs, “But it doesn’t change anything. We can’t touch the homecoming money. You want to give the musical extra funding? Put together a bake sale or something.”

“Let’s get rid of all the budgets,” he finally sighs, tossing his pen towards the chalkboard. It falls short and clatters to the ground. Clarke picks it up and clicks the end a few times.

“I know you don’t mean that,” she says, walking over to him, “Because that would be chaos. Ark would get hit by an asteroid, if we cancelled the homecoming parade.”

Bellamy shrugs. “What’s wrong with a little chaos?”

“We’re supposed to _prevent_ chaos,” Clarke says, walking over and leaning against the desk next to his, “It’s why we became co-presidents.”

“Speak for yourself,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Then why?”

It’s strange. Clarke has known Bellamy forever, it feels like. Through elementary, then middle school, where they were in the same split class, and now high school. Where they’ve ended up as co-council presidents.

But she doesn’t really _know_ him. Has never talked to him outside of the _have you seen so-and-so_ exchanged between classes. He has his friends and she has hers and even though their friends are friends with each other, and Octavia’s the _best_ , Clarke and Bellamy have never really been alone like this.

“Resume padding,” he says, “Got to get that scholarship.”

He doesn’t say it, but she hears it all the same. Or maybe it’s not him, but the way everyone looks at her in the hallways. _Madame Secretary’s daughter._

“You’ll get a scholarship,” she says stiffly, “Your grades are good enough, and you’ve got plenty of other extracurriculars.”

“Call it an insurance policy,” he says, shoving his notebook with its scratched up cover into his backpack, “I have to go to Georgetown. And I don’t think they’ll think too highly of me if my legacy involves taking money from worthy causes and giving it to things like _homecoming_.”

She has a faint idea why it has to be Georgetown—it’s no secret that his only reason for doing anything is Octavia—but she can’t really understand it.

Clarke hops off the desk and grabs her bag. “Well, then. I guess Georgetown will just have to appreciate Ark High’s homecoming, then.”

“Don’t go to sleep too early,” he calls to her as she leaves, “I’m sending you a revised proposal.”

“Good luck!” she tosses over her shoulder, letting the door fall shut behind her.

 

*

It’s half past one when her phone lights up with a message notification. Stifling a yawn with her fist, Clarke turns onto her stomach and tugs her phone closer, careful not to dislodge the charger from its socket. Her blanket slips off of her shoulders, and though it’s still fall, goose bumps dot her arms at the sudden chill.

‘What about winter formal?’ Bellamy has written.

Clarke sighs as she taps out her reply. ‘What is it with you and school dances…’

‘They’re lame as fuck,’ he writes back immediately, ‘but we could siphon some money from that…’

‘Winter formal happens in a hotel ballroom, and that costs money.’ He doing this on purpose; it’s not as if he doesn’t know—he’s been to enough of these things. Last year with Roma, the year before that with Mel. She should put her phone face down on her bedside table and go to sleep. But when she sees the dots pop up next to his name, Clarke finds herself anticipating what he’s going to say.

‘So we up the ticket prices,’ he says, ‘it’s not going to matter to the people who actually want to go if they have to pay an extra twenty.’

‘Yes it is,’ Clarke writes back, ‘An extra twenty from everyone who comes means they’ll expect something extraordinary. Which you’re not going to be able to deliver if you cut the budget.’

‘Goddamn. Can’t you call in a favour or something? Get a ballroom for cheap?’

‘Do I look like a hotel heiress to you?’ She thinks of how her name is as much _Princess_ as it is Clarke. Immediately, she adds, ‘Don’t answer that.’

She isn’t a princess, or an heiress, but she’s past trying to explain that to everyone who sees her and assumes. It’s easier if they think she has the world at her feet, anyway. And it’s not like she’s ever wanted for anything material, so they’re not absolutely wrong when they call her that.

‘Well, what are we supposed to do, then? The musical got cut last year because of funding problems, we have to have one this year.’

‘Choose a different production,’ Clarke sighs, turning on her back, holding the phone above her face, ‘Something less expensive.’

If he’s only doing this for a gold star on his resume, she doesn’t understand why the damn musical has him in such knots.

‘Princess,’ is his reply, and she doesn’t need to see him to know the face he’s making. They’ve been at this student council thing for only a summer, but she knows the face. He’s always giving her the face.

She’s about to tell him that it’s late and they can talk about this in person tomorrow, when it hits her.

‘We can cut the leadership retreat,’ she says. Not cut it, exactly. Change the venue to her grandparents’ lake house that’s technically hers now, so they save on lodging. The rest—food, blankets—they can improvise.

‘That’s your brilliant idea? Cutting an event that’s actually worth something?’

‘No, there’s this,’ she stops. Then decides there’s too much to type. ‘Can I call you?’

‘Sure?’

He picks up on the first ring, and it’s not the first time she’s called him, but it’s the first time it’s gone this late. His voice is unusually raspy when he says, “Hello?”

It disarms her for a second, and it takes his quizzical, “Princess? You there?” to pull her back.

“Yeah, sorry,” she takes a deep breath, “Okay, so, there’s this house by the lake we can use for the retreat. For free.”

“Free?”

“Yeah,” she says in a rush, “It was my grandparents’, but now it’s mine, so we can just go spend a weekend there. All we’ve got to worry about is food and extra bedding, but that’s doable on a small budget.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, and she can hear the gears turning in his head, “There’s a fire pit, right? Can’t have a leadership retreat without a fire pit.”

“Of course there is.”

She’s not sure when she falls asleep. Clarke wakes to her phone tucked between her ear and her pillow, with Bellamy snoring softly through the phone, and though she’s most definitely not a morning person, she smiles all the way to the bathroom. _Bellamy Blake snores._

Who would’ve thought?

 

*

Clarke can’t pinpoint the exact moment things between them go from stubborn disagreement to weathered partnership. Perhaps it’s the third time they bring their designated driver idea to the adults and they’ve barely finished before they’re given a firm _no_. Perhaps it’s that she’s just as frustrated at the prospect of spending hundreds just to uphold tradition. When there’s so much that money could accomplish.

Bellamy has ideas and so does she. Perhaps it’s that she realizes that it isn’t an either-or situation. That her ideas and his can peacefully coexist. He stops being the co-president she didn’t choose, and starts being her ally. Her partner. They stop splitting the work and do it together. And on the fifth time, the principal finally gives in.

They get their designated driver service.

(It’s that the students elected the both of them for a reason.)

 

*

When they announce Clarke’s name along with the other nominees for homecoming queen, she’s pretty sure it’s someone’s idea of a joke. She isn’t cheerleader or jock-kind of popular—people know her because of her mother, and most recently because of council. Clarke knows she’s _pretty_ , is as happy as anyone can be with how they look. But she’s not the kind of pretty that homecoming queens are supposed to be. So, yeah. It’s a joke. It has to be.

There’s so much for her to do, she forgets about the nomination until the night before the dance.

It isn’t that she’s averse to competition—most of the time, she thrives on it. Just, there’s nothing driving her to beat out the other candidates. At the back of her mind, she knows it’d be _nice_ to win. But with so much _work_ , she has no time to concern herself with something as trivial as homecoming court. Not when she has to make sure the actual event runs smoothly.

Homecoming is as much a success as it always is. There’s the jocks soaking up the attention, cheerleaders in their uniforms waving their big blue and white pom-poms. She and Bellamy have to go to sit through all of it, but they end up hashing out the details for the individual club profits funds in hushed voices, so it’s not entirely awful.

Predictably, she doesn’t win homecoming queen, but she feels wonderful in her dress—a twenties inspired blush number that Octavia found for her—so it’s a win, regardless. As far as school dances go, it’s not the worst. So there’s that, too. She dances with all of her friends, and when her ankles have had enough, she gets herself a glass of punch. There’s a kick to it—most definitely alcohol, and she downs it quickly and grabs another.

“Too bad you didn’t get that crown,” Bellamy brushes his shoulder against hers, and she jumps, nearly spilling the contents of her plastic glass on her dress.

“Geez, you scared me,” Clarke sighs, inspecting the dress as best she can in the dim lighting.

“For what it’s worth, I voted for you,” he says gruffly. She turns her head to look at him, and he’s staring straight ahead, at the couples on the dance floor swaying to Aerosmith. The red, blue and green lights flash periodically over his face, illuminating the sharp line of his profile.

It’s not that she hasn’t noticed how stupidly good-looking he is. Even when they were disagreeing more often than not, she noticed it. It was part of what made him so annoying. But now, when she looks at him, she finds herself admiring the smaller things—things she’s catalogued in her mind. There’s his golden skin, the freckles that trail over his jaw and lower. His shoulders that stretch any and every shirt he wears.

“Nice of you,” she says, “Did you vote for me during the council elections, too?”

Her voice comes out a little huskier than usual, and the inside of her mouth feels dry. She hopes that the music’s loud enough that he doesn’t hear it. It’s not like he doesn’t know the effect he has on people—it’d be hard to miss the way people always stare. It’s just. It’ll be better for their working relationship if he doesn’t know that the effect extends to her.

She knows that he’s not going to exploit it, even if he knows of his upper hand. All the same, the thought of giving him such an advantage twists her stomach into knots.

“Of course not,” Bellamy scoffs, “I needed all the votes I could get. You’re stiff competition.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I voted for myself, too.”

He says nothing, but the corner of his mouth turns up. They stand side by side for a while, the silence between them not stifling, but companionable.

“If I wasn’t running…” he pauses, then rubs the back of his head. “I would’ve voted for you, if I didn’t need this student council gig.”

He’s maintained that this is a resume inflator for him. That he’s doing this for a full ride to Georgetown. But Clarke sees the way he cares about everything and everyone around him in that gruff way. How things get done with him in charge, how he can make people care about things they might not have thought about before. Bellamy Blake is a leader, and she’s trying her best to do _something more,_ but she isn’t sure how much she can accomplish. So for him to tell her he’d have voted for her—

Clarke doesn’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

“I mean it,” he says, “You’ve got good ideas and you actually follow through. It’s a lot more than can be said about the grown-ups in DC.”

It’s no secret that she’s the secretary of state’s daughter. Everyone knows it, and every time something goes wrong with the world, the government messes up again, they all _look_ at her. Judging her for her mother’s faults, even though it isn’t—she’s her mother’s daughter, but the secretary isn’t Mom.

It feels a little like her fault, though.

Council is her way of separating herself from Abigail Griffin. Her way of making her own brand of politics, of making positive change in Mom’s stead. But she’s realizing fast that the council’s structured with co-presidents for a reason. She needs Bellamy in a way she never thought she would. He pushes her, makes her think harder, work harder.

It’s about more than her mother; it’s about giving the students the school they deserve. 

Clarke leans her head against his shoulder, and this is the first time they’ve done this, but she can’t help but notice how the two of them just seem to _fit_.

 

*

When she comes home from school on the evening before Thanksgiving, there’s the telltale black Bentley and the men in identical black suits and sunglasses standing outside her door. They recognize her—of course they do—and she’s let inside with a sharp nod. It surprises her; with everything that’s been happening, she would’ve expected them to scan her, too.

Taking a deep breath, she unlocks the front door and slips off her shoes.

“Look, you can’t make this decision before considering all of your angles. Don’t do anything before I get back!” She hears Mom say.

The alarm beeps loudly as she closes the door. She’s entering the code, when Mom comes up behind her.

“Hey, sweetheart, you’re a little late. How was school?” she asks, all smiles and soft eyes—like a normal mother. Except, she’s Madame Secretary. And this is the first time Clarke has seen Mom since she came home in early August.

“It was good,” she hears herself say, “I had some things to take care of for student council.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Mom says, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, “How’s that going?”

“It’s going pretty well, we got the designated driver program started, and our approval ratings are the highest they’ve ever been.”

Mom wraps her arms around Clarke’s shoulders, and it’s more reflex than anything that has Clarke wrapping her arms around her waist. “You know what they say, about the apple not falling far from the tree. I’m proud of you, baby.”

Clarke’s stomach churns. There was a time when she would’ve done anything to hear those very words. To hear that her mom, her idol, everything she’d ever wanted to be was proud of her. That she thought Clarke was following in her footsteps.

She thinks of all of the people dying in the warzone, because of a war Abigail Griffin supports. She’s going to be sick.

“Thanks, Mom,” Clarke peels herself away and starts walking upstairs. “I have stuff to do, so…”

“Stuff to do? You need to pack your things, we’re spending Thanksgiving in DC this year.”

Halfway up the stairs, Clarke freezes, her heart sinking. “We’re not doing Thanksgiving at home?”

“DC _is_ home,” Mom says through gritted teeth, “There’s this charity thing we have to go to.”

“I have a lot of work to do, Mom. And a group project. I can’t go to DC for the weekend.”

Mom laughs softly, patronizingly, and Clarke has this urge to smash her head into the wall over and over again. “I have work too, sweetheart. There’s still a lot to be done in DC. I have meetings—”

“Well then go,” Clarke says, gesturing towards the door, “You’re busy, I’m busy. There’s no point to Thanksgiving then, is there? Have fun at your charity thing.”

“Clarke,” Mom says, her voice sounding suspiciously like a reprimand. Except it can’t be. Because only Mom’s allowed to scold her, and the woman standing in front of her, all straight blonde hair and perfect makeup and sleek black dress is Secretary Griffin. Who is _decidedly_ not her Mom.

“It’s fine,” Clarke sighs, “There’s no point in us doing a turkey if Dad’s not here. He’s the one who liked that stuff, anyway. We can do it for Christmas. You can go back to work now.”

It’s clearly the out she’s been looking for; Clarke sees relief all over her face. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” she grits out, “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

Clarke turns around, and pads silently up the stairs, her socks slipping dangerously along the hardwood. In the safe confines of her room, she shuts the door and leans against it. It’s not like she expected some perfect family Thanksgiving. She’d known it wouldn’t be, the minute Dad told her he wouldn’t be able to make it home.

It’s just. She’d had hope.

But seeing her mother like this; happier to be working than spending time with her, the remnants of her illusion falls apart. She looks around and sees everything as it is, for the first time since the day Mom was called by President Jaha to serve.

She’s a junior in high school. And she’s alone.

Two thoughts run simultaneously through her head. The first being that she really, really needs to get out of here. The second; Bellamy’s on driver duty tonight. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s fishing her phone out of the front pocket of her backpack and flipping to her call log. Being the person she calls most frequently, he’s at the top of the list.

“Hey,” she says when he picks up, her voice shaky, “It’s Clarke.”

“I know who you are, Princess,” he drawls, “What do you need?”

“You’re on driver duty tonight, right?” she asks, biting the inside of her lip.

“Yeah, why?”

“You mind an assistant? I could ride along, help you get everyone home?”

He’s silent for a beat, another. Clarke wonders if he has hung up. But what’s the big deal? She just needs to get out of the house, and it’s not like sitting in a car, waiting for calls alone is _fun._

“Bellamy? You there?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “Sure, why not. Be outside in five.”

It takes her two minutes to grab her coat and shove her wallet and phone into her pockets. Another minute, and she’s coming down the stairs, yelling bye to Mom. Who’s—predictably—on her phone. Bellamy pulls up in front of the Bentley, his little Toyota looking even smaller next to the SUV.

She slides into the car, and sighs. “Thanks,” she says to him in greeting.

“What’s with the men in black outside your house?” he asks nonchalantly.

“My mom,” she sighs, leaning her head against the window, “She came to visit.”

“To visit? But doesn’t she…” he trails off, unsure. He pulls out of the spot in front of her house and drives up the street.

“Live here?” Clarke laughs, “No, she lives in DC. More convenient for her, since she spends most of her time at work.”

“So…you don’t live with her?”

“I did. For three months in freshman year. But I missed this place, and I didn’t really fit in with the other kids at the private school. So I convinced my parents to let me move back here,” she examines her nails under the glow of the streetlights, “Grossly unhappy, and all of that pre-teen angst. You know how it is.”

He’s silent for a beat, and it’s the strange kind of strained silence she’s not used to with Bellamy. So she fiddles with the radio tuner, trying to find a station to listen to.

“You live in that big old house by yourself then?” he says finally, keeping his eyes studiously on the road.

“It’s not a big deal,” she shrugs, “I spend most of my time at school, anyway.”

“But the sec—your Mom,” he corrects himself, “She’s here for thanksgiving?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Nah. She was here to pick me up and take me to some charity thing in DC. I said thanks but no thanks. I’ve had enough of DC to last me a lifetime.”

“What about your dad?” he says, turning into the Wendy’s drive-thru line.

“He’s working in Kenya. They can’t spare him for a weekend, and he really wants to come home for Christmas, so. I told him not to bother.”

He’s silent for a while, and this time, Clarke’s grateful for it. She doesn’t make a habit of talking about her less-than-idyllic family. The people who know—Raven, and now Octavia—have seen it first-hand. They’ve seen how Mom doesn’t come home, and Dad can rarely get a call through.

But this is the first time she’s told someone about it, and she’s never felt so exposed, vulnerable. She hates it, a little bit.  

“Hey,” he says softly, “I’m sorry.”

She straightens. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

He nods. But after that, she’s not Princess anymore. She’s Clarke.

There’s this tightness in her throat every time he says her name. She doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, but sometimes when she looks at him, there’s this _feeling_ in her chest. This fluttering that she’s never known, and though she has a vague idea of what it is, she can’t bring herself to acknowledge it. Not when she doesn’t know if it’s a good thing.

This is Bellamy. Bellamy Blake who’s abrasive and angry, Bellamy Blake who would give up anything for the people he cares for. Clarke used to think that honour was only for Octavia. She’s slowly realizing that it extends to everyone around him. _Everyone._

(When she gets home, the security detail is gone. So is Mom.)

 

*

The night before the winter formal, Clarke and Raven sleep over at the Blakes’. It’s half past two by the time they go to sleep, their hair tucked into strategically placed rollers. While her friends knock out almost right away, Clarke finds herself unable to sleep. When Octavia’s digital radio clock flips to three, Clarke peels back the covers and gently closes the door behind her.

There’s a light on downstairs. Rubbing the tops of her naked arms—Bellamy and Octavia’s house isn’t quite so drafty as hers, but it’s still winter and nowhere is warm enough for her to be wandering around in a tank top—she walks down the stairs. 

It’s Bellamy in the kitchen, standing over a saucepan on the stove. He’s in a faded navy t-shirt with ‘history buff’ spelled across the front. It stretches over his chest, the sleeves banding tightly around his biceps. She resists the urge to laugh hysterically. History buff has never been a better descriptor for anyone.

When she takes a step forward, the floorboards creak under her weight and he looks up.

“Clarke. What are you doing up?”

She rubs her left foot over her right. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Octavia’s snoring?” he asks, giving her a sympathetic look.

She snorts. “Octavia’s not the Blake who snores,” she says, looking at him pointedly.

“You trying to say something?” he asks, eyebrow raised, “Because I don’t know if my mom snores.”

She shakes her head. “You know that you snore.”

He puts his hands on his hips, stretching the shirt even more. “How would you even know that? And I don’t snore.”

Clarke wonders how many years ago he bought it, because it has clearly seen better days. There’s also the small fact that it doesn’t really fit him like a t-shirt should—there’s nothing _loose_ about it. The hem rides up when he crosses his arms, and with his sweats riding dangerously low on his hips, Clarke catches a glimpse of his hipbones, pressing into his skin.

Where she was chilled a moment ago, Clarke finds her entire body growing warm.

Exhaling loudly, she clutches the edge of the countertop and keeps her eyes studiously away from his. “What’re you making?”

“Warm milk,” he says, stirring the pot, “I couldn’t sleep, either.”

“You do realize,” she gestures towards the other side of the kitchen, “that this would be a lot easier in the microwave?”

“Microwaves are bad for you,” he says, and Clarke rolls her eyes, “You shouldn’t use it so much. Especially if you’re putting in plastic.”

“Whatever, Mom.”

“Watch it,” he says warningly, “Or I won’t give you any of my milk.”

“Keep it,” she grimaces, “Warm milk is disgusting.”

“Is not!”

“It is! Milk is something that’s supposed to be cold and eaten with cereal.”

“Cereal’s so much better with warm milk! No wonder you’ve always got a sore throat!”

“I never get sick,” she says primly, “So your warm milk theory is bullshit.”

He opens his mouth, retort at the ready, when the front door opens. Bellamy goes absolutely still, his hand glued to the handle of the wooden spoon he’s using to stir the milk. When Clarke turns around, she sees Aurora, dressed in a stunning dove-gray evening gown.

“Hey,” she says softly, “Why are you two still up?”

When Bellamy doesn’t answer, Clarke slow says, “We couldn’t sleep. And Bellamy was making warm milk.”

“I see…” Aurora says slowly.

Bellamy takes the milk off the stove, pours it in three mugs and hands Clarke one of them. “It’s late, Mom. You should try to get some sleep.”

Picking up the remaining two mugs, he hands one to Aurora. Clarke can’t see his face, but judging by the look on Aurora’s face, she’s sure he’s giving Aurora one of his tight-lipped smiles. She follows him upstairs, and they end up in his bedroom, with its shelves lined with hardcover books, walls plastered with posters from musicals.

Bellamy crawls on top of the covers on his bed, scooting to the other end so Clarke can sit. It’s strange and intimate, being like this. She’s been in his room countless times, but never this late. And he’s never expected her to just sit beside him on her bed.

Telling herself that it’s only weird if she makes it weird, Clarke slides beside him, mug heating her hands. The two of them are silent for a while. Bellamy chugs his milk, and Clarke wonders how he does it—she takes a sip, and it’s a step away from scalding.

“So…” Clarke says slowly, when she finally speaks, “Your mom’s dress was nice?”

“Yeah, I know,” he whispers. And there’s something in his voice that makes Clarke’s chest hurt a little.

“It’s stupid,” he sighs, “I should be glad. There’s so many homeless people out there, and here I am, living in this warm house, with a car. With a future. But I…we don’t need all of this. Not if it means Mom’s never around. I can get a part time job, and Octavia still needs a mother, you know?”

“It isn’t stupid,” she says quietly, “We all need our parents to be parents. It sucks when they’re not. You know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring down at their hands in his lap. “I do.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says, leaning his head against hers.

It isn’t the milk that makes her sleepy, because warm milk is still gross. All the same, Clarke finds herself growing drowsy. As her eyelids get heavier, she vaguely registers someone—Bellamy—pulling the duvet out from underneath her and draping it over her shoulders.

She wakes to the sound of soft snores and a strong pair of arms cradling her head to a rock-hard chest. And she _knows_.

Somewhere between the election and now, Bellamy’s gone from pain in the ass partner to _this_. A boy who holds her and sets her ablaze. A boy who knows everything about her, and isn’t scared. A boy who will go to all lengths to protect his people. A boy who is everything to her.

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut and wills her heart to stop pounding.

It doesn’t work.

 

*

He takes Echo to winter formal.

Tall, glamorous Echo who is nothing like her, and everything like Roma.

 

*

All things considered, she does a pretty brilliant job of hiding it. She’s quite proud of herself, actually. They have a council meeting the week after and her palms are sweating and her pulse thunders at her throat. She’s pretty sure Monty can hear it, because he turns halfway through Bellamy’s speech and gives her this look. Like he _knows_.

She agrees with most of what he’s said, but she picks a fight with him, anyway. It’s almost like old times with the two of them yelling at each other from across the classroom. The other council members watch them, eyes flitting back and forth as they fight about pillows of all things, for the leadership retreat.

Afterwards, Bellamy’s laughing about it, and she laughs with him, but. It’s pretty obvious that she’s not really laughing. Because Bellamy Blake has a type and it’s not her. The entire time they’ve known each other, he’s had exactly one kind of girlfriend; tall, leggy and dark haired. So not her, it hurts.

Anyone else, and she would’ve told him. Gone for it, possibility of rejection or not. But this is Bellamy. Her partner Bellamy. She tells him, and things will never be the same. He’ll be awkward or she’ll be awkward. The stupid fights will be gone. The arguing will be gone. And she needs them, needs _him_.

So the sooner she gets this out of her system, the better.

_Easier said than done._

 

*

She doesn’t see him, doesn’t talk to him for all of winter break.

It doesn’t stop her from thinking about him.

 

*

She’s still working on it, when it comes time for their leadership retreat at her grandparents’ lake house. She’d tried to find a better date, one that’s a little farther away, but it’d been useless. It’s either this weekend or no weekend at all. So she’s planning on being a champ and powering through it. Crush or not, she’s going to enjoy herself.

They arrive mid-afternoon, and though they spend the rest of the daylight hours doing trust exercises, Clarke can’t seem to shut her mind off when it comes time to sleep. When she’s tossed and turned in her cot for a good hour, Clarke gives up. Shrugging a cardigan over her tank top, she creeps down the stairs.

He’s sitting silently on the bottom step, in the dim light, so when he says, “I figured you wouldn’t be able to sleep,” she’s so startled, she nearly slips and falls.

“You need to stop doing that,” she says, pressing a hand over her chest, “I could’ve slipped and fell.”

“I would’ve caught you,” and Clarke can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Whatever,” she grumbles, walking past him and towards the kitchen.

“You’re avoiding me,” he announces.

“No I’m not,” she says automatically. Even though she quite obviously is. “If I was avoiding you, I would’ve skipped the retreat.”

“Except, this is your grandparents’ house. So it’s not like we could’ve come without you.”

“It’s a supervised school excursion,” she crosses her arms over her chest, “the teachers have the keys. I didn’t have to come. I did anyway.”

_Only because it would be weird and obvious if she didn’t._

“Are you seeing someone?” he asks, and it’s such an outrageous question, she freezes where she stands.

“What?”

“You’re seeing someone, right? That’s why you’ve been emailing me more, instead of working out of the council room. You’re busy, because you’re seeing someone.”

“Is that what you think?” she asks, keeping her voice carefully neutral, “That I would avoid you because I’m seeing someone?”

“Yes,” he says, voice soft. “No. Maybe?”

When Clarke turns, she sees he’s staring at her hands. “What else would it be? Things were great, and then they weren’t, so…”

It’s a mistake to be doing this. Even now, when she can barely make out his features, there’re these butterflies in her stomach. For a moment, she considers lying; it’d be so much easier to deal with all of this if she said she was with someone. She could get over him in peace, and keep his friendship at the same time. But.

She doesn’t want to lie to him about this. Not when he’s still here, so close it almost hurts to be around him, knowing that he won’t want her the way he wants girls like Echo.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” she says softly, walking over and sinking onto the step beside him.

He looks up. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“I’m not avoiding you, Bellamy.”

“Come on Clarke. Give me a little more credit.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Is it someone I know?” he asks, running his fingers through his hair, “Because if that’s why you’re being weird, Clarke, it’s fine, nothing happened between us, so it’s not like…”

He stops, eyes wide, as if he’s just said something he wasn’t supposed to. But it’s the truth. Nothing happened between them. They slept in the same bed and Clarke woke up and everything was different. That day, he took Echo to the formal. Probably kissed her. Because nothing happened for him, nothing changed.

“Not like what?”

He sighs. “Look, things got a little weird after you slept over. I get that. But you and I are friends. So aren’t we supposed to get over this kind of thing?”

Clarke doesn’t know what prompts her to say it. Maybe it’s that it’s late, and she’s tired, and she’s tired of not being around him. It’s that she misses her partner. Misses how things were. And things are only awkward if they make it. Eventually everything will go back to normal. She just. She needs to get this off her chest and out of her mind.

She says, “I can’t.”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. “You can’t what?”

“Get over it,” she whispers, “I can’t.”

The overhead light slants across his face. When his eyes meet hers, they’re soft and mellow. He cups her face in his hands. “Me too.”

She doesn’t what makes her lean forward. Perhaps it’s that this is Bellamy, and she’s been wanting to do this for a very long time. It’s that she’s had these feelings for months, maybe longer. And the way he looks at her now. She can believe that he feels what she feels.

That maybe it’s not just her with this ache in her chest.

His lips are soft and warm, tasting of mint toothpaste. When he pulls back his eyes are hooded.

“I’ve got feelings for you, Bellamy,” she murmurs, pressing her fingers to her lips, trying to memorize the way his felt against hers. In case this is a one-time thing.

“Me too,” he says, his voice raspy, “For a while, now.”

When they kiss for the second time, they’re both smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> So ends my take on HS!Bellarke. My knowledge of American high school is largely based off of One Tree Hill and other shows set in American high schools. I apologize for any mistakes in the subject matter.
> 
> Mega huge thanks to the greatest beta in the world, [candid59](http://cachekakusu.tumblr.com/) for everything you do. <33
> 
> And thank you for reading, and Merry Christmas to each and every one of you. I hope the new year finds you well~


End file.
